


Non Believer

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hawke joins a gang, Hurt/Comfort, Mafia AU, Modern Era, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Hawke had always told herself she’d pay the debts and be out. Easier said than done. She finds herself in the Wolf’s employ, working as his gun, hunting down his enemies.---There’s nothing quite like a fist. Clenched tight, knuckles white, knuckles bloody. Bone against bone, colliding with jaw, spit flying. Her head rolls, hair across a sweat soaked face, tasting iron in her mouth. She gives another test to the metal around her wrists, pulling, and finds no give. Lifting her head to glare at him, watching as he lines up another. No, there’s nothing quite like a fist. Shaking her head as her vision swirls, as pain blooms in her skull. “Do it again,” she says as the blood dribbles from her nose, twin lines that muddy around her mouth. He takes her up on her offer, and her head hangs as blood drools to the floor, between her feet. Hair like a halo darkly, a veil that hides the way she grits her teeth.





	1. Everyone has a Price

There’s nothing quite like a fist. Clenched tight, knuckles white, knuckles bloody. Bone against bone, colliding with jaw, spit flying. Her head rolls, hair across a sweat soaked face, tasting iron in her mouth. She gives another test to the metal around her wrists, pulling, and finds no give. Lifting her head to glare at him, watching as he lines up another. No, there’s nothing quite like a fist. Shaking her head as her vision swirls, as pain blooms in her skull. “Do it again,” she says as the blood dribbles from her nose, twin lines that muddy around her mouth. He takes her up on her offer, and her head hangs as blood drools to the floor, between her feet. Hair like a halo darkly, a veil that hides the way she grits her teeth.

“Enough.” There’s boredom in that voice. The bruiser’s worn shoes are replaced with shining newness, a neat black with laces tied. Not a scuff upon them. Someone has put a chair in front of her, and she watches as those shoes turn, take a seat. “We’re going to talk,” he tells her. “You are going to tell me everything I want to know.” Hawke licks her lips, eases back in the chair as she looks up. She’ll have a black eye in the morning, and she knows her lip is split. Taking a pained breath and yes, that’s definitely a cracked rib. Good enough.

“Why would I tell you anything?” A slow smile as she carefully shakes her head, and despite the blood and the hands tied behind the chair, she looks almost comfortable. Her shirt is old and stained, ripped where she’s been cut. There’s a hole forming in the knee of her jeans, and her shoes have seen better days. That hair is chopped and messy, clearly cut by herself. He’s examining her from head to toe, finds her lacking. The only thing striking is the clear blue of her eyes, a fixated ocean, a gaze that does not shift from his.

A stark difference in his careful attire, the luxurious suit. Almost all black besides that darkly green vest, a velvet statement of wealth. “You say that like you don’t know who I am or that you think I don’t know who you are,” he says. Green meets blue, and she doesn’t blink. His grey hair is trimmed short on the sides, longer pieces slicked back. His vitiligo winds like vines at his chin, curls down his neck. She can see it on his hands as well, and yes, there’s no mistaking who he is. She keeps that smile, says nothing.

“If you will not talk to me, perhaps you’ll talk to a friend,” Fenris says. Without looking behind him, he simply raises a hand, gestures someone forward. One speaks to another, the door to the warehouse opens. She strides in as she tucks the phone into her pocket. Another expensive suit, but this one hides a gun. She takes her place beside him, one hand on the back of his chair. Pinching the bridge of her nose, sighing as her hand rests at her hip. Wherever he was, she was sure to follow so it wasn’t if Hawke didn’t know she’d come.

“Hello Aveline,” Hawke says to her. Aveline’s fingers tap the chair in a hard rhythm, one after the other, the line of her mouth souring the longer she looks at her. That red hair pulled back into a stiff knot and maybe Hawke’s missed her face, maybe not.

“I thought I’d never see you after you left the FSF. After Ostagar,” Aveline says. The thing she remembers most about the Ostagar OP was the rain. Of course there was the mud and Aveline’s hair still flaming under her helmet, but nothing could compare to the rain. Soaking through their uniforms, through skin and bone, drowning in their blood. There’s been no storm since to match it. Hawke tilts her head and the smile barely shifts.

“But you’ve kept tabs on me,” she says. It’s said matter of fact and the tap, tap, tap against the chair continues to beat. Not that Hawke hasn’t kept tabs on her as well. Always a good thing to keep an eye in the right place, an ear to the ground.

“Don’t assume you’re special, I kept tabs on everyone who survived,” Aveline half growls it, irritation plain. What Hawke remembers most is the rain, because the rain keeps the rest at bay. The light high above them flickers only slightly, enough to draw Fenris’s attention. A sheet of metal missing on the roof, and he can see the stars in the sky. The waves crash against the dock, the sound of boats rocking back and forth.

“Last I heard, you were working for Athenril,” Aveline says. Hawke cocks her head, barks sharp and short laughter. Aveline’s ears always burned as red as her hair when she lied, or gave a half-truth. The FSF had tried to work it out of her, but never could. Unless that had changed somehow, Aveline either didn’t know what happened or wasn’t told. Bullshit either way.

“Last you heard?” Turning to face him, and the smile is no longer smug but sinister. “When was the last time you checked in with your crews?” Looking back at Aveline, “or is that your job?” Fenris’s eyes narrow. Aveline’s hand is in her pocket, turning her phone in her hand. She knows they should be calling Athenril, something she had wanted from the first. Hawke was her responsibility, she would want to know one of her crew was running wild. She had been overruled, the matter too serious for Athenril to fully deal with.

“Find Meeran,” Fenris says quietly. Taking the phone from her pocket, and Hawke hears the subtle click of it unlocking. Tapping until she finds the right contact, putting the phone to ear as it dials. A final tap, a drum of her fingers, before Aveline is turning, taking a respectful enough distance so Hawke doesn’t hear. Fenris leans forward, elbows on his knees. Hawke does her best to mirror him, leaning forward as much as she can without straining her arms.

“Athenril is dead, isn’t she.” A statement, not a question. They look at each other, and Hawke’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Where is the rest of her crew? If you survived, there must be others.” They can hear the heel of Aveline’s shoe against concrete, the restless tap. “You’ve been killing Meeran’s people because you think he’s behind it. You think I’m the one who ordered him to clean house. It must disappoint you then, to know I’m not the one behind this,” Fenris tells her.

“Bullshit.” Hawke leans back in the chair. She plants her feet, looks away from him. Fenris leans back as well, the frown forming as his hands stitch together in his lap. She looks over his shoulder at Aveline’s distinct outline, her shoulders impatiently square. The phone goes back into her pocket, and she’s walking back to them. That hand on the back of that chair, leaning over, murmuring something in his ear. It earns her a single nod from him as they both face Hawke.

“It seems Meeran has disappeared for the moment. It also seems that we do not yet have the full picture of events. When was Athenril killed?” Fenris asks her. Aveline blinks surprise for a moment at the news, but the information is catalogued and filed away, coming back to the moment.

“You already know the answer to that.” The killings began yesterday. Bodies deposited at known sites, all places that would reach Fenris’s ear. With the count rising, it was easy to identify them as Meeran’s men. Then she had stumbled, looked directly at a security camera. “I knew how to lure you out,” Hawke says in a low whisper, “you’ve always been known to be hands on.” Not a stumble then. A trap.

“ _Where_ did you take my sister?” Biting and harsh, the true scope of Hawke’s anger in every word. A crew was family, but he easily understands that she’s not talking about some survivor. Hawke is clearly a wild dog, food withheld, bloodied and beaten, filled with anger. Anger that was turned towards a target. Towards him. Someone was playing with them both.

“I don’t have her,” Fenris says.

“More bullshit. Tell me where the fuck my sister is, now.”

“I don’t have her.” Hawke’s head whirls, turns towards Aveline.

“What’s the first rule of the FSF?”

“Never engage alone,” Aveline answers slowly. Some understanding dawns and she stands straighter, eyes narrowing as she looks around the warehouse. Crates in every corner, up the highest windows. Dirty but still effective, easily able to see inside from a good vantage point. Crates that weren’t theirs, filled with god knows what. “Carver. This is a mistake Hawke, you don’t want to do this. We didn’t take Bethany.”

Glass cracks, shatters and falls, the bullet lands at Aveline’s feet. Embedded in concrete, and the others are immediately drawing their guns, on full alert. Aveline whirls, “search the other goddamn buildings!” Her thumb is easy enough to dislocate. One size does not fit all, and the cuffs were clearly made for a much large person. Wringing her hand through the metal, rubbing her wrist as she stands. Popping her thumb back into place, stretching out her hands. Good enough. Aveline is reaching for the gun on her belt, but Hawke is moving quickly, lunging forward. Fenris rolls his eyes.

They’re both tall but where Hawke is agile, Aveline is built like a brawler. Her throws are heavy, and Hawke feels the rattle of a bruise on her arm where she stops one. Fists like iron and there was always good reason to have Aveline lead any charge. Without hesitation, Hawke rocks forward on her feet, smashes her face into Aveline’s. Both recoil but Hawke recovers quicker, hands on Aveline’s shoulders, raising a knee to her crotch. “I don’t have a cock!” Aveline shouts, irritated.

“Always wanted to check,” Hawke shrugs, “isn’t it a rule you need one to be intimidating?” Aveline makes some noise of disgust as she twists Hawke’s arm with one hand, finds her throat with the other. Squeezing tight and Hawke leans her weight on Aveline, raising her foot to slam a kick into her belly. Again and again until Aveline is stumbling back. Wheezing as she regains breath, stumbling forward on her feet, hands outstretched towards the gun on Aveline’s belt. She’s stopped by a hand in her hair, yanking her backwards.

“That’s enough,” Fenris says as he drops her. It gives Aveline enough time to stand, to steady herself, to draw the gun and keep it pointed at Hawke. “Call off this ‘Carver’ and we’ll talk.” Aveline is breathing heavy, nose bleeding where Hawke’s forehead met her face. Hawke is even more of a mess than before, struggling with each breath, feeling the cracked rib even more now. She gathers the blood in her mouth, spits it in his direction.

Fenris pays it no mind as he bends down beside her. “Someone has been trying to tear apart my organization. Every attempt from the outside has failed, and it seems they’re trying to do it from the inside now. I am not your enemy. I can help you find your sister,” he tells her.

“You’re lying,” Hawke says.

“It’s an exchange. We find your sister, you help us find the one who’s really behind this,” he says. She only glares and he sighs. “Despite the gun pointed at you, whoever you have watching you hasn’t fired. I think this Carver knows that killing Aveline or I would bring down a reign of terror upon the two of you. On your family, on your friends, on everyone you’ve ever known. You don’t trust me? Fine. We accomplish nothing by staring at each other.”

He stands, extends his hand to her. She hesitates in taking it, her hand wavering. It finally settles and Fenris pulls Hawke to her feet. She turns towards a single window, makes an ‘x’ with her fingers. “Now what?” She asks, as Aveline slowly puts the gun back in its holster.

“Now we find Meeran,” Fenris says as he puts his hands in his pockets. “And call our men off of Carver would you Aveline?” Aveline is already calling as she catches up to him, Hawke following grudgingly behind.

* * *

The water burns on her skin. She presses a hand to her rib, at the bruise, watches red run between her fingers. Tilting her face upwards, letting the shower do its work. Running hands over her face, through her hair. They’ve brought her to a hole in the wall clinic, some place she’s been before. They can’t exactly explain away bullet holes at a legitimate hospital. She allows herself to stand, to close her eyes, to feel water running over her skin. She had retrieved her things from that hidden crate, called Carver. He hated that she asked him to lie low. He has the itch as much as she does, the constant scratch to find Bethany.

Their shampoo smells clinical, their soap plain. With the towel wrapped around her waist, she finds Aveline waiting in the small room. She holds out a bag, “I guessed your size.” After that Aveline sits on the bed, crosses her arms and waits.

“Don’t trust me to be alone here or did you just want to see me naked?”

“Definitely naked,” Aveline deadpans. Hawke chuckles as she roots through the bag, accepts what’s given. She dresses quickly, those jeans and a plain shirt, looks at herself in the mirror. Lip is definitely split, swollen slightly. The eye isn’t as bad as she thought, although it will definitely bruise. She rubs an aching jaw, decides it’s as good as it’s going to get. Her hair is still damp when they leave, and Hawke is surprised to see someone else with Fenris. The building was dark and locked when they arrived, but now the first room is brightly lit.

“First you want to kill her and now you’re working with her? There was a body on my doorstep. Mine! Do you know how bad that is for business?” A blond haired man is shouting at Fenris, using his hands for emphasis on every word. Hawke leans against the wall as Aveline moves to stand beside her boss. “Not to mention you come in here in the middle of the night like you own the place –”

“I do own the place,” Fenris says. “Are you done?” “I guess so,” he grumbles. He walks around Fenris, points at Hawke. “You. Sit.” He gestures at a single bed half covered by curtains. Hawke sits cautiously, bats away his hands when he moves to touch her.

“My name’s Anders, I’m a doctor,” he tells her. He holds his hands out in front of her again, waits for her to nod. He traces the line of her jaw, thumbs pressing against her cheekbones. Testing her nose, her forehead, pushing at her lip. Hands that knead into her shoulders, follow down her arms. She can’t hide the wince when he touches the rib.

“Shit that fucking hurts.”

“Nothing broken, at least. I can give you something for the pain, but what you need is rest,” Anders shrugs as he straightens.

“She’ll spend the night here then,” Fenris says. He’s actually wearing the jacket of his suit, tailored to the perfect line of his body. She’s seen him in passing before, usually when she attended a gathering with Athenril. Even from a glimpse it was easy to know him, a unique figure among all the rest. Hawke flops down onto the bed, crossing her legs, wiggling her toes in a goodbye.

“We’ll come get you the moment we hear something about Bethany,” Aveline says. Hawke only rolls over to face the plain white wall, curls her fists against her chest. It takes a good hard swing before the door closes properly behind her. Anders is moving in the clinic, opening a drawer, filling a glass with water.

“Take these. Drink all the water,” he says.

“Do you live here?” Hawke asks as she turns around, sits up and crosses her legs. Resting her hands on her ankles, looking attentively at Anders.

“Sometimes it sure feels like it,” he says. He flops into a chair by a messy desk, covered in papers and bottles. He stretches out, lounging utterly, sighs as he rubs his forehead. “I still haven’t forgiven that little present you left.” She grins.

“Sorry,” she tells him. He grunts and points at the pills, the water. The pills taste like chalk but she gulps down the water like she’s been in a desert for the past week and a half.

“Just get some sleep,” he says as he spins the chair around, pulls a book from underneath the papers. Propping up his feet on the desk, leaning back as he opens it to a marked page. Hawke takes the phone from her pocket, lies in the bed. No messages from Carver. No messages from anyone. Hawke hugs the phone to her chest as she sleeps.

“Hawke.” Aveline catches the fist in her palm, a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “We found something.” Heavy breathing, back soaked in sweat, some old nightmare she can’t escape. Aveline slowly gets go of the fist, the hand on the shoulder. She rises and Hawke does as well, heading for the bathroom. A splash of water on her face, running hands through her hair. Looking in the mirror and the bruises blossom, color, and… good enough. Slipping on shoes, grabbing her coat and her phone.

Fenris is wearing sunglasses, leaning against a car. Two others flank him, some nameless guards, and he watches as Hawke follows behind Aveline. She blinks in the bright daylight, looks down the street. Unusual that a clean, newer car might come down this street and so all eyes are on them. The door is held open for them as they sit inside. Two rows in the back, facing each other, and so Hawke awkwardly faces them. Aveline is scrolling through her phone, while Fenris turns his head to look out the window. “Good morning to you too,” she says.

“We’ve traced money to a certain property. Whatever Meeran is, it isn’t smart. It was fairly easy to find, if you had the tools to look. There were people posted to the door of this supposedly abandoned store, guarding something inside. We think it’s Bethany,” Aveline says.

“You’re sure?” Hawke asks as she struggles to take the phone from her pocket. Low battery flashes at her, navigating quickly to text Carver.

“Who are you talking to?” At Fenris’s words, Aveline reaches out and snatches the phone from Hawke. Taking a brief glance before tossing it back to her.

“Carver, sir,” Aveline tells him. He turns from the window to look at Aveline and she quickly fills in the gaps. “Her brother.” Hawke is typing out a brief message, sending it off, before cramming the phone back into its place. Watching the streets roll by through tinted windows, from one neighborhood to the next. Her leg begins to bounce, rising adrenaline, and she holds out her hand towards Aveline.

“Give me my gun.” Aveline instantly turns towards Fenris. Some smile quirks at the edge of his lips, and he pulls off his sunglasses. Folding them neatly, holding them in his hand as he looks at her.

“Why should we do that?” It strikes him how absurdly tall she is. He thought Aveline tall, but she rises at least a head above her. She crosses her legs so that her feet do not touch theirs, and he can see clearly defined muscle on her arms. The FSF did not recruit lightly, so this Hawke clearly had skill. Well, that was something he already knew from how quickly she tore through Meeran’s men. Skill, but reckless. Those clear blue eyes again, fixing on him.

“I’m not going to shoot you in the back, if that’s what you mean. I need to protect my sister. You took my gun when you tied me up. I want it back,” she says. Yellow shades her eye, purple at her jaw. Red and pink splotches, hiding the freckles of her skin. Fenris neatly unfolds the sunglasses, puts them back on.

“Give her the gun.” Aveline opens the storage of the car, in the space between them, pulls out Hawke’s belt, her gun, the dark leather jacket they took from her. Hawke grins as she unbuckles to put it all on, checking the mags on her belt, giving a familiar glance to her gun. Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, spinning the lighter between her fingers. A single flick and back in it goes.

They park just down the street from the target. Hawke gets out of the car to find at least five others waiting for them. Fenris keeps his hands in his pockets as Aveline quickly splits them up. “You three will go around the back, you – pay _attention_ – will stay with the boss. You two, take the front.” They move quickly, casually, looking no more than well-dressed onlookers.

“I should go with them,” Hawke says. Aveline taps the piece in her ear.

“I’ll let you know when it’s clear,” she tells her. Hawke is wavering on her feet. Fenris watches the careful control. Gripping the lighter tightly in her pocket, eyes on the building. Swaying, forward slightly, and back again. Some grit in her teeth, and off she goes. Running across the street, towards darkened windows and a closed door. “For the love of –” she raises her sleeve to her mouth to speak into the mic, “do _not_ shoot Hawke.”

“Doesn’t matter boss. Place is empty.” Aveline’s face sours as the voice comes in through the static. Fenris follows after Hawke, and Aveline raises her hands in frustration. Looking momentarily at a clear sky, before going after him. Hawke is opening the door, moving inside, and Fenris catches the door as it closes.

The windows are covered in newspaper, the glass of the door much of the same. The interior has been stripped bare, evidence of shelves on battered walls. Dirt underfoot and for the most part, the place is empty. Save for one chair, and its occupant. The others form a semi-circle as Hawke stands in front of the chair. “Bethy?” Reaching down, her hand underneath a chin, lifting the head upwards. Blank eyes stare back at her, ghostly and pale. The bullet hole rests in the middle of her forehead. The blood is long dried, lines that run the length of Bethany’s face.

Hawke kneels down slowly, hands on Bethany’s knees. Aveline is pointing at the others, forcing them to leave without a sound. Hawke reaches for a still hand, takes it in her own. Brushing a thumb over knuckles, reaching up to take the scarf from her neck. Shoving it into the pocket of her jacket as she stands, smooths Bethany’s hair back into place. It’s always different when it’s someone you know. “Hawke,” Aveline says softly, “I’m very sorry.”

She turns slowly, her hands clenched into fists. “Meeran,” she says to Fenris, “is mine.”

“Yes,” he promises.


	2. The City Gates

“I haven’t been to church in years,” she says as she looks at him, “I honestly thought we might burst into flames.” Fenris snorts amusement, leans against the bannister of the upper levels. Looking out over the pews down below, where no one bothers to look up or behind. There are two people sitting in the front pew, one openly weeping. The priest is reading straight from the bible, candles burning and mixing with incense. Aveline crosses her arms. “I thought she’d be here already.”

“Maybe there’s a reason she doesn’t want to come,” Fenris says as he watches. Aveline leans over, the both of them quietly watching. She recognizes the shape of Carver, all hard lines and pointed frowns, staring quietly at the coffin. Which means the one beside him must be Leandra, face in her hands, crying loudly. The sound of it is only interrupted when the heavy wood doors open, letting in the sound of the street, closing with a bang that echoes.

She’s wearing a black sweater underneath her jacket. Hood up, wisps of raven hair that curl around the cotton, and Hawke walks slowly up the aisle. Hands in her pockets, wearing faded jeans and neatly tied boots. Leandra’s head raises from her hands. She looks over her shoulder and Hawke stops in her tracks, just below where Fenris and Aveline watch. Leandra’s knuckles are white as she clenches the back of the pew, helping her stand, marching into the aisle and pointing an accusatory finger. Her hand trembles even as she shouts, “you let my baby die.”

Hawke says nothing, simply stands. Leandra takes a shuddering step forward. “If it wasn’t for you Bethany would still be alive,” she hisses. Carver runs a hand through his hair. Slowly standing, turning away from the coffin where Bethany lies. Flowers in her hands, in her hair, eyes closed. The priest adjusts the glasses on his nose, closes the bible. He leaves without saying a word. Carver adjusts his tie as he stands in the aisle, and he and Hawke look at each other. A moment, maybe two, and Leandra is still screaming, pulling at her hair. Something breaks and Carver is moving again, putting his arm around Leandra’s shoulders.

“Mom. That’s enough.” Leandra shrugs it off as she steps forward once again. The growing proximity of her mother only makes Hawke stand taller, shoulders square, feet planted and chin held high. Aveline’s seen that stance before. Hawke was always the person to follow, the one who would lead the charge. She seemed invincible and without fear. Aveline knows better now.

“You killed her! You killed my baby girl!” Hawke accepts the slap, and the sound of it rings across the church. Carver moves, holds her back, arms around her, and still Hawke doesn’t move. “How could you? How could you?” Carver’s so carefully arranged tie is now over his shoulder, and Leandra’s nails are biting into his arm as she writhes. Pushing and screaming, until finally she sags. Turning and winding her fists into Carver’s suit, legs unsteady and folding beneath her. Weeping fills the hall once again. Fenris stands and turns, heading for the stairs. Aveline gives one last look before she follows after him.

By the time they get down the stairs, Leandra is folded over the coffin while Carver waits. Hawke has already left. The wind bites cold into their skin as they walk outside. She’s easy enough to spot, her height making her stand out from all the rest. “Are you sure you still want her for that role?” Aveline asks. Fenris never takes his eyes off the back of Hawke’s head as they follow from a distance. “There are others with… better temperaments. I could give recommendations.”

“You said she was loyal,” Fenris says, “that’s all I need.”

“Yes, once you earn her loyalty.” He gives Aveline a singular look. “Not that you aren’t worthy of that loyalty but after everything’s that’s happened? You two aren’t necessarily starting off on the right foot.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he says. He adjusts the scarf to rest a little neater, checking the buttons down his long coat. Leather gloves on his hands, and his shoes still shine. Out of place, here, where half the buildings are run down, road sagging and full of holes, where he loses count of the people taking refuge in whatever nook they can find. He avoided it now, but in the early days this was the city he lived and breathed. Still familiar, still the same, not even the graffiti had changed.

The door to the bar chimes as she opens it. Making her way to the counter, sliding into a chair. Folding her hands onto the counter, watching as the bartender fakes a laugh to the man flirting with her. She turns, eyes wide and rolling, makes her way to Hawke. “Men have absolutely no charm,” she says as she places two shot glasses on the counter. Filling them up with vodka, clinking them together. She and Hawke drink at the same time. Pressing hands against the counter as she leans over it, giving Hawke a very full and satisfying kiss. “Have you come just to see me, tiger?”

Hawke chuckles softly as Isabela leans over, elbows on the counter, chin resting on knuckles. “You, and to maybe take a walk downstairs,” she says. Isabela fakes a pout as she stands up again completely.

“I thought you quit.”

“I need it today,” Hawke says, pushing the shot glass forward. It’s filled and downed in an instant.

“It’s your funeral,” Isabela shrugs and Hawke weakly smiles. Isabela is bending down, searching through cabinets. When she resurfaces, she slides the key across to Hawke. Another shot and she’s taking the key, blowing Isabela a kiss as she walks towards the back. An unmarked door, key that fits the lock. Hawke turns it between her fingers as she puts her hands in her pockets, heading down the stairs. It grows louder the more she walks, and the room opens. Standing between tables, looking at the stage in the middle. A ring. Two men are beating the piss out of each other, but Hawke only adjusts her hood, keeps walking.

Isabela stands up straight when she sees them walk in. Aveline goes straight for the counter, while Fenris waits. “Is she here?” Isabela eyes Fenris, back to Aveline.

“She’s my friend, big girl. You know I hate doing this,” Isabela tells her. “She’s downstairs, going for the ring.” She passes a second key across the counter. “If you do anything to her –”

“Thank you,” Aveline says as she takes the key, looks over her shoulder at Fenris. They descend into the dark together. They find a secluded table in a corner, look over at the stage. The only thing brightly light, all eyes meant to be on it. Most are in their seats, but many still crowd around the ring. Yelling and slamming hands against it, cheering on their favored fighter. An attendant is collecting money for the bets, marking the odds on the chalkboard behind him.

“What can I get you?” The waitress asks as she takes the key from Aveline.

“Water,” Aveline says.

“Scotch. On the rocks,” Fenris says. He turns his chair to face the stage better. Taking off his gloves, neatly resting them on the table. Button after button, letting his coat open. Untangling the scarf, and it hangs loosely around his neck. Running a hand through his hair, the smallest check to make sure everything is in place. Renewed cheers and shouting as one man takes victory over the other. The announcer is screaming his name, holding his arm up. Attendants are helping the other off the stage, wiping off the blood.

“And now, a treat for you all,” the announcer is saying, “our long-time Champion, back for a very special match!” Hawke’s hair is pulled back, as much as she can gather, although stray pieces still wisp around her face. Leggings and a tank top, standing at ease in bare feet. She’s looking at the people around the stage, all those chanting her name. Goddess of the ants below, Hawke pays them no mind. She gives no smile, no lingering glance. A clean sweep and she’s tightening her hands into fists. She stands without a care, the wiry muscle of her exposed for all to see.

The waitress brings their drinks, settles them on the table. Fenris reaches for his immediately, takes a sip, and rolls the alcohol on his tongue. “To face her, our current leader in the scoreboard, Hayder!” Another brute. Big, bulky, raising his arms and cheering with his crowd. He stomps over to Hawke, snarls in her face. Hawke doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.

“Begin!” The announcer is diving off the stage as Hawke ducks and rolls, Hayder’s thrown punch hitting only empty air. Back on her feet, playing with her food.

“She used to laugh,” Aveline says as she leans back in her chair, the glass in her hands. Condensation pools, drips and drops, lands against her skin. Her thumb swipes at it, and she takes a small sip. Putting the glass on the coaster as she rests elbows on the table. Watching Hawke intently as she speaks, caught up in a past that no longer mattered. “We’d call her a hyena. The moment we were told we were being sent in, you could just see how excited she got. Everyone wanted to be in her squad. You’d have a competent commander who would crack jokes in the middle of a war zone.”

Grim line of her mouth, eyes narrowed. Brow furrowed in concentration, her strikes are calculated. Graceful in the way she moves the agile line of her body. Hawke isn’t brute strength, but rather a dance, sanguine and liquid. Mesmerizing. His finger traces the rim of his glass, balancing it on a knee. Elbow on the table, hand at his mouth, knuckle rolling across his lips. Fenris couldn’t deny the attraction. She makes a beautiful sight, even as her fist lands and blood goes flying across the stage. The crowd cheers, stamping their feet, and Hawke’s assault doesn’t stop.

The other half, ones with bets riding on Hawke’s defeat, are less than pleased. They’re almost as grim as she is. Hayder grits his teeth, rolls out of her way. Hawke circles the stage, circles him, eyes on her prey. He wipes at the blood beneath his nose, on his lips, spits it onto the stage. She may be a hyena but he is a bull, prepared to charge. Leaning left out of his way, the weight of him taking him farther than he means to go. He lunges towards her, and she ducks down, rising with fists digging into his gut.

He finally catches her, a heavy blow struck against the top of her shoulder. She staggers back, lets her arm hang loose. Fenris leans forward. He’s never quite understood events like these. He gets the appeal, the adrenaline, but only from the side of the participator and not as an observer. Perhaps it was always the brick of it. Unyielding and always the same, punch after punch until one goes down. She twists it for him, and he takes pleasure in seeing her stride across the stage. She plays up the wound, and when Hayder strikes again for the left, that arm, she catches it easily.

Fenris is already half hard from watching the way she moves. He knows that Hawke could lay him flat easily, claim her victory. He downs the rest of the scotch, slams the glass on the table. Watching her twist Hayder’s arm, pressing her knee into his back. Stamping her foot into the back of his knee, and Hayder goes crashing forward. The cheers for her only grow louder, more exuberant, while Hayder’s side grows angry. Hawke’s fist finds his face, a blow that’s sure to leave a bruise. He’s on his back while she straddles him, and although he’s trying to throw her off, she keeps her balance. She keeps him pinned, and maybe there’s a hint of a smile.

That changes when the knife slides across the stage. One of Hayder’s supporters no doubt, but they both see it at the same time. Hawke is reaching to keep Hayder in place, while Hayder is reaching for the knife. She moves just as the blade slices the edge of her thigh. They both stand to face each other, breathing heavy, and Hawke’s knuckles cracked and bloody, a hand clamped against her thigh. He expects her to dance again. He does not expect the charge. Sleek and smooth, rolling on the ball of her foot, and she kicks high. Teeth clamp against teeth as her heel strikes his jaw. The knife falls limp out of his hands, as he collapses to the stage.

Fenris eyes the rip in her leggings, the blood that shines in the light of the stage. She seems utterly relaxed, tilts her head side to side as she rolls her shoulders. It’s the lick of her lips that seals it for him. He leans back in the chair, grateful for the darkness as the erection strains against his pants. The announcer is sliding underneath the ropes, into the ring, snatching up the knife. He pays no mind to the unconscious Hayder as he lifts Hawke’s arm in victory. Her face is flushed red, more hair escaping the pony tail and curling around her face. The pleased twist spreads, and Fenris thinks this is perhaps the first time he’s seeing Hawke truly smile.

They watch as Hayder is dragged away, flagging down the waitress for another drink. Lifting up his sleeve to look at his watch, and he finishes his drink quickly. She should have had enough time by now. It’s easy enough to get into the changing rooms. Money exchanges hands, and Fenris is able to walk right in. He finds Hawke’s jacket thrown over one of the benches, and he takes a seat beside it. She rounds the corner in a towel, hair still damp and dripping water, her hand a fistful of toilet paper clamped to the cut on her leg. “Motherfucker!” She steps back when she sees him. “Are you serious?”

She shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and reaches for the kit on the wall. Throwing it down onto the bench, settling her foot on it as well. Taking away her hand and the toilet paper, revealing the still bleeding gash. She lets the paper fall to the floor as she bends over and clicks open the kit, revealing a sad selection of first aid. “That is pathetic,” Fenris says as he looks at it.

“Yes, well, this place isn’t exactly a shining beacon of healthcare,” she tells him as she digs in with a blood on her hand. He scoffs, knocks her hand away.

“I’ll do it,” he says. She raises an eyebrow, and blood is slowly rolling around her thigh, dropping to the floor. “I was in school to be a doctor.” Finding new plastic gloves, putting them on. Reaching for a new needle inside the packaging, the wrapped thread. He arranges it all neatly and presses a towel against her leg.

“It’s how I know Anders,” he tells her as he wipes away the blood, lines up the needle to the cut.

“Why did you drop out?” She asks between clenched teeth as he begins to stitch.

“I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he says without looking up from his work.

“… Did you seriously just quote The Godfather to me?” She presses a hand to her face as she laughs, the other hand holding up the towel. “Jesus Christ.” A sly smile as he ties the knot, cuts the thread. Wrapping it all together, throwing it in the trash. Dabbing the blood away from the wound with the towel again, and he finishes by pressing a large adhesive bandage to her leg.

“Not bad,” she says as she reaches for the clothes beside him. Gathering them up in her arms, moving into the next aisle of lockers where he can’t see her. “Don’t think I don’t know you weren’t at the church.” Her voice carries over to him, and he says nothing. “Why have you been following me?”

“I wanted to speak to you,” Fenris says.

“That’s what phones are for,” she says as she turns the corner, leans against one of the lockers. The leather jacket fit neatly on her shoulders, over the sweater, and her hands are shoved in the pockets.

“This discussion is meant to be done face to face,” he says as he stands. Taking his place before her, and Hawke snorts with laughter.

“Usually your sort summons us, instead of coming in person,” she tells him.

“I prefer to do things differently,” Fenris tells her. Her eyes are moving over him, from that grey hair to green eyes, vitiligo on his chin and around his neck. She has clearly toweled off her hair properly, and it groups around her, a dark and wild mass. Blue eyes bright and clear, freckles on porcelain. The bruises have healed in the week since the warehouse, the cut on her lip almost completely gone. “Aveline has told me much about you. Who you were before and during Ostagar. She told me about your skills, your loyalty. You would be an asset. My last bodyguard was killed –”

“Those ‘outside forces’ you spoke about?” She asks. He nods and she sighs, lips pursed together as she nods, eyebrows raised. Rubbing a hand across her face, crossing her arms as she looks back to listen.

“I would like you to replace him. Stand at my side while we hunt down Meeran and his masters,” he says.

“You know,” she says, “with Athenril dead I really thought I’d be able to get out of this game. Now you’re asking me to hop right in, even closer to the fire than before. I want Meeran, you know that and you’re using that.”

“Think of it as just another job. I know you need the money.” She stares at him flatly.

“Alright. Between Aveline and the background check, what do you know about me?”

“Almost everything. I was slightly surprised to find out that Carver is a cop,” he says.

“One of the good ones too. Doesn’t take bribes from people like you,” she says.

“I don’t need to give bribes when the Captain is already in my pocket,” he tells her.

“Son of a bitch. I knew Jeven was dirty.” She scratches at her cheek while she thinks. “Did Aveline ever tell you what really happened at Ostagar?” Fenris slowly shakes his head. “Didn’t think so.” She pushes herself away from the lockers as she paces. Laughing as she raises her arms in the air. “Ferelden Special Forces! Best of the best! Un-fucking the completely fucked, that was our job. Ostagar was supposed to be easy. Set up a perimeter, capture a target. It blew up in our faces, literally. They knew we were coming.” Hawke reaches for the edge of her sweater, her shirt, starts rolling it up.

“The backup we thought was coming… didn’t. Their commander deemed it a situation too dangerous. All of us were written off as a loss.” Burn scars lick the side of Hawke, cover most of her belly. Melted flesh and angry red, Fenris says nothing. She lets her shirt drop. “Carver was the only one who came after us. He saved us. His commander didn’t like that very much. We were honorably discharged for almost dying, he was dishonorably discharged for saving us.”

“Army was where he belonged. I know part of him doesn’t mean to, but I think he hates me for it. So we came back – one of us fucked up and the other fucked. No one would hire him. Athenril comes to me, tells me that if I work for her then it’s problem solved. I make money, Carver has a steady job, and mom and Beth don’t have to worry about anything. How peachy wonderful. Another thing that blew up in my face, hmm? I was played for your game.” She stands before him, accusatory and angry, finger bumping against his chest.

“I agreed to help you with Meeran and the rest. I didn’t agree to be your bodyguard,” she says as she runs a hand through her hair. Fenris chuckles under his breath.

“We can discuss the terms at a later date. For now, I’d like to show you where we’ll be spending most of our time,” he says as he turns, begins walking towards the door.

“Haven’t you been listening to me? I haven’t said yes!” She catches up to him quickly, holds open the door as he walks past. Aveline is waiting for them just outside the door, and she passes Fenris his gloves. They head for the staircase together.

“So you’ve decided to be his bodyguard?” Aveline asks Hawke.

“Yes,” Fenris says at the same time Hawke gives a hearty _no_. She glares at his back as they exit into the bar proper, gives Isabela a polite wave as they walk through. Isabela puts down the cup she’s washing to blow Hawke a kiss. Hawke pretends to catch it, winks as she puts it in her pocket.

Hawke sits beside Fenris in the back of the car while Aveline drives. She’s got an elbow on the door, against the window, tapping impatient fingers against her cheekbone. She looks out of the corner of her eye to where Fenris is silently scrolling through his phone. She looks away when Fenris turns towards her. Driving out of the seedier parts of the city to the more expensive side of things, Aveline drives with ease and practiced knowledge. She parks in an underground lot, holds open the door for Fenris.

“Welcome to the Hanged Man,” he says as Aveline holds open a door for them. The smell of sweat and perfume, the edge of alcohol. Girls wait at the door to take hat and coats, a smile on red lips, a welcoming wave. Deep reds and brilliant golds, darker hardwood beneath their feet. Small tables with lamps in the center, people grouped around them, chatting as they drink. They’re slapping coin down onto the table, yelling as they lay down their cards. The band is playing with all their might, desperate to be heard, unable to draw attention away from the stage. It’s where all eyes eventually go, eventually linger. A woman is singing, dressed in a shimmering dress, lights beating down upon her.

The bar is large, displaying expensive bottles, liquor of the highest quality. Wealth is on display here from the many attendants refilling drinks, the carefully arranged food, and the warmth of the singer’s voice. A hand on the small of Hawke’s back and Fenris is leading her past it all, the noise and seduction of it, towards a door marked employees only. Milling past shouting attendants, the rich smell of food, and Aveline is pressing a card against a reader. She stays behind while Fenris leads Hawke up the stairs.

The music is barely audible on the second floor. She can still feel it under her feet, in the slightest vibration. There’s only one door which Fenris unlocks, holds it open. “This is my club. My apartment. Most business is done here,” he says. A large and open space, minimal in its décor. At the end of the room, in front of a large pane of windows is a single desk. Papers upon it, a single chair. Fenris walks towards the small bar area, pours two glasses.

“Wine,” he says as he passes her one, “from my own vineyard.” He holds his glass as he moves to stand in front of the windows. Hawke slowly joins him, doesn’t drink just yet. Looking over downtown, the bustling nightlife, cars in the street and people going about their business.

“This is my city,” he tells her, “I’d like you to help me keep it. I will give you the vengeance you want, I will provide for your family. You will be well taken care of. Let me make use of your skills.” Hawke frowns as she stares at the street. Raising the glass to her lips, chugging it all down. Slapping it down on his desk, putting out her hand.

“Alright,” she says. Fenris smiles, and they shake on it.


	3. The Moth

Isabela stretches like a cat, back arching and arms above her head, giving a satisfied rumble. “Good morning to you too,” Hawke says as she reaches across her, over to the sole nightstand. Grabbing her phone, flopping back into Isabela’s absolute nest of pillows. Whatever clothes Isabela had gone to bed wearing had been discarded during the night, and she’s quick to curl around Hawke. Nuzzling her head into the crook of Hawke’s neck, smiling as her fingers dance down her arm. She’s moving in even closer, and Hawke can feel the cool metal of Isabela’s lip piercing against her neck.

“Not that I don’t like waking up with you here, tiger,” Isabela says, “but I’m surprised you haven’t taken Fenris up on his offer.” Hawke breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly. Scrolling through the morning news, checking her emails with a twitch of her thumb. A few texts from Aveline, everything else is on the regular. Locking the phone with a click, throwing it on top of her lap, on top of the blankets.

“It’s something I need to think about,” she says as she turns to face Isabela, the phone falling between them, rubbing a hand on her bare arm. Isabela chuckles under her breath as she closes the distance between them. Warm body against warm body and Isabela is slipping a hand underneath Hawke’s shirt, resting it on her hip.

“I wouldn’t need to think about a thing. Have you seen that man? Yum. I’d be moving in in a heartbeat. He thinks the same about you or else he wouldn’t have asked,” Isabela says.

“I’m his _bodyguard_. I asked Varric and he said no other bodyguard lived in his apartment with him,” Hawke tells her. She runs a hand through her hair, scratches behind her ear.

“Please. It’s been like two months – he knows what kind of person you are,” Isabela says.

“Really? A few months is all you need to know someone?”

“No offense Hawke, but you really aren’t some grand mystery. You’re a do-gooder who happens to be amazing with a gun. Remember that guy whose wife got kidnapped? He was an absolute creep and you hated him but you agreed to help, and you did. Even after he told you he was broke when most of the leg work was already done. You follow through on your word,” Isabela says, poking at Hawke’s chest.

“Too bad she was dead when I found her.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t on you,” Isabela says as she pushes Hawke’s hand away to give her cheek a rub of her own. She smiles, and Hawke can’t help but smile back. “Plus you’re gorgeous and an absolute freak in the sack. Who wouldn’t want you for easy access in their spare bedroom?”

“You, apparently,” Hawke says as she rolls over the giggling woman, pinning her wrists beneath her hands. Hawke lets her weight settle on top of her, and Isabela slides her legs over hers. “You’re so eager to kick me out.”

“Tiger, a beautiful and wealthy man has asked you to live in his spare bedroom. What on earth are you waiting for?” Hawke sighs as she lets go of Isabela’s wrists, rolls back onto her side of the bed, onto her back. Finding the phone between them, pressing it against her chest as she stares at the ceiling. Isabela has those glow in the dark stars stuck there, hidden now in the sunlight, all the perfect constellations. Isabela presses an elbow into the mattress, rolls over to stare at Hawke. Hawke reaches up, lets a hand follow along her generous curves.

“You know the dreams I have. I don’t think he’d appreciate being woken up to screaming,” she says. Isabela’s eyes sparkle with the grin.

“I’m sure he’d be absolutely fine with you screaming. Especially if it’s ‘yes! _Ah_! Oh, Fenris, _yes_! Ah! Fenris, _Fenris_ , fuck me harder, _god_ , yes!’” Isabela’s moaning as she rolls back over, running her hands over her body, cupping her breasts and squeezing her eyes closed as she continues to imitate Hawke in the throes of passion. Hawke presses knuckles against her eyes as she shakes with laughter.

“Alright! Enough! I get the point,” she says, phone in her hand as she throws back the covers, “it’s just – you don’t find it odd he asked me to live in his spare bedroom? Just a little bit?” She finds her jeans discarded on the bedroom floor, quickly pulls them up. Buckling the belt as Isabela sits cross-legged, tilts her head as she thinks.

“You said more runners are being attacked? If my business was being disrupted and people in my ‘employ’ being stabbed and shit, I wouldn’t feel too cozy either. Look at the size of you Hawke, you make people feel safe just by being near you,” she says as she pulls the blankets around her shoulders, over her head, wearing the sheet like a shawl.

“I would think that’s more Aveline’s department,” Hawke grumbles. Isabela snorts agreement. Hawke tucks her phone into the pocket of her jeans, scratches at the back of her head. “I need to run to my apartment. Want to get breakfast on the way?” Isabela shakes her head, leans back into the pillows. She’s always had far too many for that small bed. She’s a lounging luxury all her own, expensive and tasteful, surrounded by feather and white, sheltered in sunlight.

“You go on. Wouldn’t want to keep Fenris waiting,” she says as she throws back her head and howls with a fake moan. Hawke is still laughing as she slips on the sweater, puts on the jacket as she leaves. Hands in her pockets, and she finds the scrunched hat which she hastily puts on. Boots untied, walking over the slush and snow of the sidewalk. She rubs the crusted sleep from her eyes as she walks, stifles the yawn, fogged breath in the air before her. It’s a relatively short distance from Isabela’s apartment to her own. She has too many keys on one loop, tangled up in the lanyard. She has to shake the lock, shoulder the door, before it finally opens.

A single room, a studio apartment, small and cramped but nevertheless her own. She throws the keys onto a crowded table, shrugs off the jacket. Plants on every surface, from the kitchen counter to the bedroom floor, green and life in every corner. Hawke takes her time as she carefully waters each and every one, stepping around pot and leaf. She takes off the sweater, the tank top underneath, throwing them onto the bed.

Forcing open a drawer, shrugging on a bra. Buttoning up the dark red shirt, pulling on the black tie. Dark jeans, new and without holes, socks to match. Gun belt, and the jacket fits nicely over top, hides her piece. Shoes relatively new, a few marks here and there, but they get the job done. She puts on a watch, attempts to tame her hair. Giving up, she pulls it back into a very loose bun. Wisps still hang around her face, tickle at her cheeks. She finds a proper coat, and nestles the scarf around her neck.

There’s a line at the coffee place, all of them standing in a row and staring at the menu. Hawke more than blends in, hands in her pockets, and pities the people at the counter for the order she’s about to place. She’s rattling it off in her head, repeating the order over and over. This is just another morning, the same order with nothing changed, but it still doesn’t stop her from rubbing the space between her brows. She’s ready with a rude word when she feels a shoulder press against hers, but the words die in her mouth when she looks over. “Hello,” he says, wearing a warm smile. She breaks into startled laughter, puts a hand on his arm.

“Hello to you too. It’s been a while,” she says.

“I’m not the one who dropped off the face of the earth,” he tells her, almost like a parent scolding a child, and yet that smile remains. Cheeks tickled pink from the cold, square frame glasses resting on his nose. She reaches up, twists a lock of his hair between her fingers. He’s somehow managed to tame the curls since she last saw him.

“I suppose that’s fair,” she says as her hand drops to his shoulder, “how have you been Cullen?” He scratches the back of his neck, and turns slightly more towards her. It’s then that she sees it, and she takes hold of his jaw to twist his face even more towards her. Her thumb traces the scar over his lip. “How did you get this?” Cullen’s face blooms red.

“An accident,” he says. Her eyebrows raise.

“An accident,” she echoes as she lets go of him, and he clears his throat, looks away. He rubs a hand against his jaw, reliving something long past.

“I’m surprised Carver didn’t tell you,” he says, “There was one particularly feisty person who resisted arrest. I – uh – got pistol whipped.” It was Cullen who had found a place for Carver, fought for him to be his partner on the force. Hawke feels a sudden pang of guilt, knowing his boss is firmly in the pocket of others with less than good intentions.

“Christ, Cullen.”

“Let’s stop talking about it, please,” he weakly laughs. Hawke snorts, hands back in her pockets, sways on her feet as she shakes her head.

“Well, it suits you. Makes you look distinguished,” she tells him. “Really handsome.” She grins as his face burns crimson.

“Good lord,” he mutters. The line shuffles, moves, and they creep slowly but surely towards the counter. Despite not seeing him for ages, they fall into easy and relaxed rapport. Perks of being friends since children.

“I heard about Bethany. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I am sorry. We will do everything we can to catch the monster who did that to her. Carver brushes me off every time I try to talk to him about it. He _should_ speak to someone,” he says softly.

“You say that like you think I can convince him. You know Carver won’t listen to me,” she says. He puts a hand on her shoulder, gives it a small squeeze. Then he lifts it, adjusts his glasses to fit better. She knows the cops won’t find anything. That’s fine with her, it’s less people interfering with what she plans to do. And Cullen… Cullen doesn’t need to know about that. At the same time he was finding a place for Carver, he was trying to convince her of the same. She chose Athenril instead.

“You still have my number if you need anything,” he says as he steps up to order. “A large black, and one with a bit of cream and sugar, please.” He steps to the side as he waits for his drinks, as he waits for Hawke to order. She rattles off a stream of drinks, makes sure to tip well. They wait together, walk out together – Cullen with his two drinks, Hawke with her two trays.

“Let me guess. The black is for Carver,” she says as he holds the door open for her.

“All you Hawkes are the same,” he laughs.

“I’m headed this way,” she gestures with a flick of her head, “I’m assuming you’re off to work.”

“Let me drive you,” he says.

“Cullen, I really couldn’t –”

“Please, Hawke, I insist.” Hawke has a sudden visceral image of Aveline seeing a cop car pull up to the Hanged Man. She can already see the vein that appears at her temples whenever she’s mad.

“Alright, why the hell not,” Hawke says as she shrugs. She follows him along the side to the parking lot, puts one tray on top of the car to open the door. Grabbing it as she sits in the passenger seat, balancing both on her knees as she buckles in and closes the door. She holds the trays tightly as he begins to drive, pulling out of the lot.

“Where am I taking you?” He asks as he flicks on his blinker, drives at exactly the speed limit.

“You know the Hanged Man?” He does a double-take for a moment, then nods. His jaw clenches, knuckles tight on the wheel, and she knows he’s trying to find the right words. “Are you – a bartender of some sort?” There it is. Some mundane job, knowing what other business happens there.

“Cullen,” is all she has to say.

“I’m not going to give you a lecture,” he says as he prepares the lecture, “but you know what I think. I didn’t approve last time and my feelings haven’t changed. It’s dangerous, it’s illegal and – you could do better. There’s still a place for you with us.”

“We can’t all be golden sunshine people,” she tells him and he only frowns. They drive the rest of the way in silence. Cullen parks perfectly on the street, just by the doors. He puts a hand on Hawke’s arm as she reaches for the buckle.

“Just – be careful,” he says.

“I always am,” she says. She gives a smile that he doesn’t return, and slowly lifts his hand away. He watches as she goes, and it’s only when she’s inside the Hanged Man does he finally leave. There’s barely anyone around this early, the occasional worker putting up chairs and washing tables. There are two on the stage, one at the piano and the other at the microphone, practicing their act for tonight’s show. She climbs the short steps to the stage, puts the trays on the piano.

“A pumpkin spice latte for you,” she says as she pulls up one cup. The sound of the piano crashes into an abrupt stop as Sebastian stops playing, taking the drink gratefully. Merrill bounds over, clapping her hands together.

“Good morning Hawke!” Hawke smiles as she passes her the mocha, Merrill holding it delicately in one hand as the other pats her back affectionately. “Oh! You slept at Isabela’s last night!”

“How did you know?” Hawke asks.

“Your soap smells like lavender. Isabela’s smells like spices,” Merrill says as she takes a sip, “is that strange of me to know?” She asks it in sudden crisis, head darting upwards from her drink, eyes wide with concern.

“You’re fine kitten,” she laughs. Merrill smiles, cheeks turning pink. Hawke decides that the best thing she had done in a while was introduce the two of them. All three of them turn when the door to the kitchen slams open.

“A cop car? Are you serious?” Aveline bellows from across the floor, stomping her way over to the stage. Hawke is pulling out the sole tea of the group, holding it out for Aveline to take. She snatches it, and Hawke tries to fight the grin as the vein pulses.

“Relax,” Hawke says, arranging the remaining drinks to fit on one tray. Passing the empty one to Aveline as she slips past, heading towards the back and the stairs that head up to Fenris’s apartment. It’s all so mundanely routine. She gives two short knocks before she hears him tell her to open the door.

He’s sitting at his desk, an elbow on the desk and resting his chin on his knuckles, flipping through the binder he’s reading. Varric looks over his shoulder, sitting opposite of Fenris, gives Hawke a short wave. He has a stack of more binders on his lap. “A long macchiato for you,” she says passing one to Varric, “and a double espresso.” She places the other beside Fenris. Throwing out the tray as she takes the last one for herself – a simple black. She lets it rest on the table as she takes off her coat and scarf, throwing them onto the chair beside Varric.

A hand on her hip, taking a long sip of her drink. “Are you coming with us today?” She asks.

“Not if I can help it,” Varric says with a deep inhale, a heavy sigh. “I hate those meetings.”

“It will just be you and Aveline coming with me,” Fenris mutters, rubbing his eyes as he closes the binder, pushing it across the desk towards Varric. He adds it to the stack. “The numbers look good. Tell them they have my approval.”

“You got it boss.” Hawke watches as Varric balances both his drink and the rest, makes his way out the door. Hawke rests a hand on her hip as she drinks, while Fenris pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Please tell me not to murder anyone today,” he grumbles.

“Don’t murder anyone today,” she tells him. She watches as he takes the drink, downs it all in a few quick gulps. “That bad?”

“Everyone wants something,” Fenris says as he leans back in his chair, turning it to face her. “Plans have been made for a new casino.”

“Sounds like fun,” she says, chuckling at the disapproving look he gives her. Framed by the windows behind him, the silhouette of the city, the warmth of the sun. It flickers on his skin, highlights cheekbone and jaw, the line of his nose. He closes his eyes, long lashes, and rests his head back against his chair. Hawke struggles not to think of what Isabela said earlier, what Fenris might look like if they – Hawke takes a long gulp, coffee burning in her throat on its way down.

They’ve developed a comfortable silence, an ease with one another. She doesn’t feel the need to speak, happy to lounge in the quiet. Raising hands above her head, squeezing her eyes closed as she stretches, back arching and legs extended, not bothering to hide the yawn. “Late night?” Fenris asks, slowly opening his eyes to look at her. She shrugs.

“Same as any other. You?” She barely needs to ask. There are dark circles under his eyes, the stress of not sleeping, or at the very least, not sleeping well. This meeting has been in the works for weeks. Constant back and forth between the groups, discussion about where the meeting should happen and why. She knows the meeting itself will be quick, or at least, straight to the point. None of them wants to be in a room with each other for long.

“Late enough,” he says. “Thank you. For the coffee.”

“Figured you might need the double today,” she says and he snorts short laughter, smiles.

“You figured correctly,” he says. Aveline knocks, but doesn’t wait for his approval to enter.

“It’s time,” she says. Hawke picks up her scarf and coat, and Fenris does much of the same except adds gloves to the mix. Aveline is already dressed and ready to go. As they walk down the stairs together, she and Hawke play rock-paper-scissors to decide who will drive. Aveline plays paper. Hawke plays scissors. A black unmarked vehicle, a large SUV, comfortable and roomy. Fenris makes himself at home in the back while Aveline takes the passenger seat.

They’ve chosen relatively neutral ground, a hotel that sits on more than one of their loosely defined borders. It’s easy to drive the car, but Hawke can’t help but miss the feel of her bike. She sold it when they first came to the city, something unnecessary when they needed so much else. It doesn’t mean she’s not saving for another. The steady rumble of it, the feel of the wind, the ease of movement. Driving is boring, otherwise.

Aveline holds the door open for Fenris after they park. They flank him as they make their way inside the hotel, unbuttoning coats for easier access to their guns. If needed. Hawke presses the button for the elevator, and all three of them have their arms crossed as they wait. “I assume the others have arrived already,” Fenris says as they watch the numbers slowly decline.

“Yes,” Aveline tells him.

“Good.” A chime, and doors open. Hawke leans against the wall, and Aveline does much of the same, leaning with one hand on the small rail. Fenris stands in the centre, his arms still crossed. It’s gotten easier to read him, and she knows what the stiff line of his shoulders mean. He’s working himself up, settling into the role he needs to play. A leader. The leader. A chime, and the doors open once again. The floor is empty besides them, the conference room at the end of the hall.

“Late,” Aris says the moment they enter. Fenris says nothing, takes the seat at the head of the table. Aveline and Hawke stand a respectful distance behind him, but flank him one again. While Fenris squares up the others sitting, they are looking at the others who stand. Mostly men, large brutes, tattoos on their necks and a gun in their belts.

“I can’t stay here long,” Meredith complains, “I shouldn’t be here at all. The press will have a fucking meltdown if I’m seen with any of you.” Their voice in city hall, the highest of the many politicians on their payroll. Aris’s hands are in fists, pressed on top of the table. He oversees the docks, the many transactions made by boat and crate. Jevan is rolling a coin between his fingers, looking perfectly comfortable. At the opposite end of the table sits Danarius.

His beard is neatly trimmed, his hair slicked back, and his suit impeccable. All his finery can’t hide the grease in his smile. One of the older players, too long in the game. He once ruled the inner city, a place now usurped by Fenris. He keeps to the outskirts now, the edges of the city, dealing drugs to people he knows can’t say no. One leg is crossed over the other, his hands folded in his lap. The only other woman is standing behind him, who doesn’t hide the disdain on her face.

“We’ll keep this brief. All of us have been affected by the recent attacks. Supply lines have been disrupted and profits are flagging. It’s no longer something we can turn a blind eye to,” Fenris says. “We can no longer keep working separately. We must share intelligence between us.”

“Or we should find someone who could deal with the situation properly. I hear one of your own men has gone rogue and into hiding? After he killed an entirely separate group. Another one of yours,” the words ooze off of Danarius’s tongue.

“It’s being handled,” Fenris tells him.

“By who? Your dogs?” Both Aveline and Hawke frown at the same time.

“I have something for you,” Jevan says. Leaning over the table, sliding a folded piece of paper towards Fenris. “I have a lead on who killed your last one.” He casts a jeering look at Hawke. Fenris quickly takes it, slips it into his pocket.

“My warehouses are under lock and key,” Aris says. No one would be getting in without being seen, without being recorded. The people in Aris’s group are always chosen carefully, generally from very select families. A picky bastard, but effective.

“Whatever comes by my desk, I will let you know,” Meredith says.

“We must also not simply assume it is someone from the outside. There could be traitors within your own groups,” Fenris says.

“The only evidence of that is yours,” Danarius says.

“Then don’t listen to me, and get killed by one of your own men.” Fenris almost sounds like he hopes it will happen.

“I need to leave,” Meredith hisses.

“In two weeks I want reports from all of you. Every necessary detail of the business workings. Not one penny unturned,” Fenris tells them all.

“You can’t –” Danarius is leaning forward, the fine veneer of him cracking into anger.

“I can. And I will. _You_ will,” Fenris says.

“Sounds fine to me,” Jevan shrugs. Nothing matters to him as long as he’s getting paid. Meredith is immediately standing, smoothing down her coat and leaving. Aris does the same shortly after, Jevan on his heels. Danarius is slower to rise, fingertips on the table.

“I will be seeing you soon,” Danarius says, smiling as he passes.

“Fuckers,” Aveline mutters once all of them have left. Fenris grunts agreement. He passes Hawke the slip of paper as they leave. It has a single name, an address. Aveline already has her phone in her hands, putting the word out for information on one ‘Raleigh Samson’. After a few minutes, her phone starts to buzz. Sitting in the passenger seat once again, scrolling through it all, and reading out the more important information.

“A former cop. Out of the force for a few years now. He was fired for stealing drugs from the evidence locker to use for himself. He hasn’t been working since. Desperate enough to be bribed by whoever,” she says.

The address takes them to the rougher part of the city, to run down buildings and broken glass. The apartment building is easy enough to find, easy enough to enter. If some sort of security existed before, it didn’t anymore. The building smells of smoke and fouler things. Grime and mold on the walls, dark carpet underfoot. Voices of tenants carry, from the soft lullaby of a mother singing to her child, to an angry husband screaming. One woman stands outside her door, a cigarette in her hand, blowing smoke at them as they pass.

Aveline holds open the door to the stairwell, where two children stand on the landing, throw a ball down the steps. The second floor is in no better condition than the first. The light that marks Samson’s door flickers, a moth battering into the plastic. Fenris crosses his arms and waits, watches as Hawke pulls back her coat to take the gun from its holster. It rests easy in her hand, as she moves to one side of the door.

She and Aveline communicate wordlessly, a brief glance and the slightest nod, and Aveline is bashing her boot into the doorknob. It falls apart easily, and Hawke is immediately in front, walking through the doorway with Aveline close behind. The balcony curtains are swaying in the breeze, and they make it inside just in time to see Samson’s back disappearing over the railing.

They’re holstering their guns as they make their way out and onto the balcony. Fenris moves to stand between them, and all three of them peer over. Samson has landed quite ungracefully in a snowbank, wearing only tattered sweatpants. He looks up at them nervously before pushing himself upwards, and taking off running down the street. “We’ll have to put the word out,” Aveline says, “by the time we get down there, he’ll be long gone.” Hawke puts her hands on the railing, and leaps over after him.

There’s no hesitation in the action. Fenris blinks and one minute she’s there and then she’s not. Black hair streams behind her as she falls. She lands better than Samson did, on her feet. Without looking back at them, she’s off chasing him. “You could have broken your ankles! Idiot.” Aveline shouts after Hawke. Fenris rubs his face in his hands. Running a hand through his hair as he straightens, turns and walks back inside Samson’s apartment.

* * *

“Samson’s in the basement.” Hawke is waiting for them at one of the tables in the Hanged Man. “The others are getting him ready. He’ll sing like a bird soon enough.” Sebastian is playing the piano, light notes that waft over the bar.

“Leave,” Fenris tells Aveline. She does what he asks without a word. Fenris unbuttons his coat, loosens his scarf and sits beside Hawke at the table. She looks no worse for wear, but he can see that Samson landed at least one good punch. Red on her cheekbone, but it won’t bruise.

“You went after him yourself,” Fenris says. Hawke blinks.

“Yes. And I brought him back.” He’s taking off his gloves, folding them neatly, putting them on the table. All the tables are round, a single light at the center of each. Different than the sunlight of this morning, but still it flickers on his face, the serious shine of his eyes.

“You went alone. Without anyone knowing where you were going, without anyone to back you up. He could have lead you into a trap. You could have been killed and we wouldn’t have been able to find your body,” he says.

“Except he didn’t, and I _brought him bac_ k,” she insists.

“You think you can do all these things by yourself. You are not going after Meeran alone. I will withhold information so you never find him if you don’t promise me this,” he tells her. Hawke guffaws in disbelief, then leans over the table.

“Why do you even care? People die every day,” she says. It’s as if he can’t stop himself. Reaching out, putting his hand over Hawke’s. She stares at it, back at Fenris. He leans even more, their faces almost close enough to touch.

“Don’t test your luck,” he tells her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [ @jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/).


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